Waxing Poetic on Chest Hair Removal
by SpartanGuard
Summary: Emma had seen chest hair of all kinds before—thick, thin, dark, light, a small amount, and an obscene amount. But this guy? It was somehow...perfect. And he wanted it gone? For the first time ever, she kind of hated her job if she was supposed to rid the world of that beauty. (modern AU featuring manscaping the ensuing smut when it grows back)


"Hey, Tink; what's my next appointment?"

"Your favorite: manscaping in Room 2."

"Thanks." Emma winked at the receptionist, washed her hands, and headed to the room where her next client waited. She was always professional, but one perk to working in a salon that offered waxing was the attention she got to lavish to the chests, abs, and other parts of some very attractive customers. True, she had to be almost clinical at times, but that didn't mean she couldn't still look.

There were some days she did curse her job, particularly when she had an itch that needed scratching (or when it led to that itch in the first place), but she always managed to resist slipping her phone number in with the post-waxing care materials, lest they lose a customer.

However, when she opened the door to Room 2 and saw the man leaning against the table, Emma knew right away that this was going to be the hardest client to resist...and she honestly wouldn't mind if he never sought their services again.

She had seen chest hair of all kinds before—thick, thin, dark, light, a small amount, and an obscene amount.

But this guy? It was somehow...perfect: thicker near the center of the chest, tapering out over his well-developed pecs, and then drawing a dark, thin line down the center of his toned stomach, disappearing into his low-slung dark-wash jeans.

And he wanted it gone? For the first time ever, she kind of hated her job if she was supposed to rid the world of that beauty.

The owner of said glorious chest hair cleared his throat; Emma blushed immediately, realizing she'd been staring. "My eyes are up here, love," he said, in a teasing tone and enticing accent.

Looking at his face was probably Emma's next mistake; of course, someone with a body like that would have a face to match. Dark, disheveled hair hung in bright blue eyes that were accented by curiously cocked eyebrows; sharp cheekbones sat above an equally chiseled jaw, which was covered in gingery scruff that currently featured an amused dimple as a result of his full-lipped, sideways smile.

"Hi. Sorry. Um, I'm Emma; I'll be taking care of you today." She gingerly stepped forward, offering the man her hand and trying to focus only on his eyes, though even that was a challenge in keeping her composure.

He took her hand and shook firmly but gently. "Killian. Should I be flattered, or do you give all customers such an assessment?"

Emma didn't have a response for that—not one that wasn't incredibly embarrassing—so she plowed on into her normal spiel, hoping the routine of it would calm her down. "You're in for waxing, right?"

"Aye, chest and abs."

"Have you ever had this done before?"

"No, never."

"I can tell." Oh shit—she shouldn't have said that, and immediately slapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

To her relief, he just chuckled. "It's alright. But yeah, never; is that a problem?"

"No, but I've gotta let you know: it's not gonna feel great. Do you want any anaesthetic?"

"Eh, I've survived worse," he said with a shrug, holding up his left arm and gesturing to where it ended, at his wrist—ouch. "Um, but you wouldn't mind if I numbed the pain with something else, would you?"

"Like?"

He smirked—a devilish thing that sent a jolt of heat straight to certain parts of her—and watched as he walked over to where his leather jacket was strewn across a chair (and she totally did not stare at the way his jeans fit around his rear end...okay, she did). He fished around for a bit—giving her plenty of opportunity to gaze at the dark hair dusted across his sinfully sinewy forearms—before producing an old-fashioned flask and popping the cork on it. "Rum alright?"

It probably wasn't, but she found herself nodding anyways.

"Good." He winked and took a couple pulls before slipping it back in his coat and coming back to the upholstered table. "So, how does this work?"

She managed to mentally shake herself from her stupor enough to explain the process, and hardly a minute seemed to pass until he was laying on the table, unbuttoning his jeans for full access to where her services were needed. "Just leave me balls alone," he'd requested with a grin; her own smile was forced—those boxer briefs left nothing to the imagination, and she'd never been sadder to not have to do a full wax, as time-consuming and delicate as it could be.

Reluctantly, she started the process of removing his hair, thinning the thicker sections with an electric trimmer while the wax prepped.

As she worked, he seemed to tense, even though she hadn't gotten to the tough stuff yet. His eyes were shut, with his long lashes laying against his cheeks and his brow slightly furrowed. Waxing was no walk in the park even for people used to it, and Emma could read all the signs that despite his initial bravado, he was nervous.

She (sadly) disposed of the clippings, then put on her gloves and got the warmed wax and other materials.

Despite warning him that she was starting, he still jumped when she brushed the first bit of wax on, carefully avoiding his nipple. Thankfully, Emma had a tried-and-true method to get her clients to relax.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, why did you decide to get a wax? For your girlfriend or something?"

(Her method was also pretty handy in getting to know this follically blessed man.)

It worked. He cracked a smile and chuckled. "No, there isn't one of those." ( _Score_ , she thought.) "It's for a friend. You know those fancy mermaid tails that cost a fortune?"

"Yeah; they're amazing." She'd spent more than one break hour staring at various Instagram accounts full of those, daydreaming.

"Aye, they are. My friend makes them, and her normal male model is unavailable right now, so she asked me to fill in for next weekend."

"And you can't have chest hair for that?"

"Apparently not."

"What about your arms?"

"She didn't say—ahh!" She pulled the first chunk once he'd finally let his guard down and pressed her hand against his now-smooth skin as he hissed. He opened his eyes just enough to glare at her. "Warn a man, would you?"

"And let you get more worked up? No way."

"Fair enough," he agreed resignedly. "Bloody hell, that stings."

"You're an awfully good pal for doing this," she commented as she went back to work. "Hope your friend realizes that."

"Oh, she knows. Let's just say my liquor cabinet will be well-stocked after this."

"Is rum your solution to everything?"

"Doesn't hurt." She pulled the next strip; he grimaced. "That does."

They continued like that as she worked her way across his chest and then down his stomach. She learned that he was a British ex-pat, having come over here after being discharged from the Navy (where he lost his hand), and still had a brother there who had pretty much raised him. (He made no mention of parents, she noticed.)

He worked with ships for a living—it wasn't perfect, but it wasn't bad either, and that's how he met Ariel of Under The Sea Mermaids, through his coworker, her husband.

She asked him about the tattoo on his forearm—a dagger through a heart with the name "Milah" across it—but his somber answer was only that it was dedicated to "someone from long ago" (that was a poorly timed wax rip on her part, but reminded her of the marks on her own body left by lost love).

His favorite color was blue, like the ocean; his favorite food was pizza; and he loved rock music.

It was like with each hair she pulled, a bit of him was revealed, and she was discovering that all those parts matched her own story just a little too well. If she hadn't already been completely taken by his outsides, she would definitely be falling for the rest.

The last bit of hair to go was just above the band of his underwear, just below his belly button (which was ticklish, apparently/adorably). She kept her eyes focused on it and only it, never straying south, and with one final rip (and another hiss from Killian), it was done.

He looked like any other smooth-skinned guy now—perfect for being a merman, she supposed, but it lacked the same character. Once she'd cleaned him up a bit, he sat up and stood to look in a mirror. His sad sigh echoed in her soul.

"You did a fantastic job, love," he thanked, albeit slightly morosely. "How long does it take to grow back?"

"You probably won't see anything for a few weeks; maybe longer."

He sighed again and it nearly broke her heart. "Okay."

She stepped out of the room to let him redress and get an after-care kit...and a pen. Before stepping back into the room, she hastily scribbled a note on the bottom corner of one of the info sheets; it looked like she was going to have to break her own rule on this one.

Back inside, Killian had on the maroon-colored, v-necked t-shirt and the leather jacket he'd come in wearing; she could only imagine what the sight of his chest hair peeking out from his shirt collar had been like before his appointment. She swallowed a gulp at the thought and walked him through how to care for his skin the next few days, briefly going over everything in the after-care kit before handing it over.

"Thank you, Emma; I don't think I could have been in better hands today."

"My pleasure," she answered, before blushing profusely again. "Have fun playing merman for a day. I can't wait to see the pictures." Dammit, she did it again—he just had that effect on her.

"I'll do my best. Take care." He waved goodbye and was out the door, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

That had been the most tempting, tortuous appointment in her years of working here, and she was glad it was finally over. She was a bit thrown off that he'd had such an affect on her; no one had in quite some time, and hopefully she'd never encounter him on this table again.

But she was really hoping for meetings of another kind, and desperately hoped he'd see her note and understand it—the one that said " _Call me in a few weeks; maybe longer —Emma_ ".

She needed to see him—and his chest hair—again.

* * *

Like any good stalker, Emma made a point to turn on notifications for Under The Sea's Instagram page (which she'd already been following, so she wasn't being THAT creepy).

Consequently (well, not really), she knew when the shoot was beginning, because there were some behind-the-scenes photos of a very familiar set of abs above a gorgeous, aqua-colored tail.

Emma totally wasn't jealous of the other girl in the shoot—some redhead who seemed all-too perfect at playing mermaid. (Just kidding; Emma totally was.)

But then the underwater photos started popping up on the feed, and Emma was completely taken at how gorgeous they were—at how gorgeous _he_ was. The tails themselves were incredible, obviously, but Killian really was the perfect model for them, with his lean muscles and graceful movement. She was so mesmerized that it took a bit to realize that he'd shaved his arms and beard, too; she mourned the loss for a moment but damn if he didn't look even more natural in the water. (They would grow back, too.) There was even a short video of him swimming in a gleaming golden tail that Emma swooned over many, many times.

So it was really no wonder that the subject of her fantasies over the next few weeks while pleasuring herself was a dark-haired, blue-eyed merman with chest hair she could only dream about. She had no idea how it would actually, you know, _work_ , but it was the aesthetic of the thing: submerged in cool water counter to the heat rising within, running her fingers through those thick tresses, and then finally lavishing her attention on that oh-so-perfect chest hair...damn.

Now, she wasn't completely weird—there were plenty of normal daydreams, too. That scruff, for instance, and all the places it could leave evidence that it had been there. And those jeans really did nothing but flatter him.

(A good part of her was telling herself that it was pure lust—just physical attraction keeping him ever-present in her thoughts. It had nothing to do with the connection she'd felt with him; he was practically a stranger, right? Yeah, that's what she's gonna go with.)

She was watching the video for the umpteenth time, comfortable in bed and ready to do some more _relaxing_ , when a text from an unknown number came in. She jumped at her phone's vibration and nearly scratched a very sensitive part (but not in a pleasant way).

 _Hello, love. It's been more than a few weeks. Checking in as directed :) —Killian_

Thank goodness he'd texted and not called so she didn't have the opportunity to make a total fool of herself again—though there were still plenty of opportunities to put her foot in her mouth through the written word. She needed to try to play it cool (as if she had any chill left when it came to him).

 _E: Hey! How was being a merman? Is everything growing in okay?_

She figured that kept it friendly but borderline professional, in case he wasn't interested; just because he was single didn't mean he was looking, as Emma was clearly an example of herself.

 _K: Everything is going swimmingly. Perhaps I could show you in person, if you were interested?_

If? _If_? He clearly hadn't noticed that eswan1022 had liked every single photo of him on Under The Sea's instagram. (And what kind of terrible pun was that?) Nevertheless, she was glad he couldn't see her grinning like a fool, and could only imagine the cocky smirk her reaction would put on his face.

 _E: I might be. Were you thinking of a follow-up or something a bit more social?_

Hopefully he wouldn't perceive her caution as disinterest, but she'd imagined them meeting again so many times, she really didn't want to mess it up.

 _K: You did a fantastic job, so don't take any offense, but I don't think I'll subject myself to waxing again ;) How does dinner sound?_

She could only grin, and—since she was alone—let out a high-pitched, girly squeal.

 _E: None taken. Sounds perfect!_

* * *

A few nights later, she was staring at the front door of her favorite diner, fighting off the nerves that had crept in over the past couple of days. What was she doing? She hardly knew him! Granted, he hadn't given her any reason to think he was anything but an upstanding guy, who she likely had a fair amount of things in common with, and hello—just look at him. But she had walls around her heart for a reason—forged by a bastard so long ago—and they were screaming at her to run, even though her heart itself was begging for her to give it a chance.

So there she stood, working up the courage to go in, when a familiar voice whispered in her ear, "I believe you have to push it, love." Killian's breath on her skin made her shiver—she could try to blame it on the fact that she'd actually worn a dress for the first time in ages, but that would be a lie.

When she turned to look at him, he was smirking, of course, and wearing that same leather jacket as before. But underneath, he wore a partially-buttoned dress shirt under a pinstriped waistcoat...and she could see more than a bit of chest hair peeking out from underneath.

"Again, my eyes are up here." Emma jumped at his statement and finally met his eyes, which were definitely laughing at her. Whatever it was about him that turned her into a bumbling fool was kind of annoying, but also kind of thrilling and oddly put her at ease.

She quickly shook her head to bring herself back to reality, smiled, and then reached for the door. "Actually, you pull."

She led him in and brought him to her usual booth. It was weird having someone across from her, but surprisingly the good kind of weird.

The yellow lights of the diner highlighted the hidden hints of ginger in his beard, fully regrown and actually a bit longer than the last time she'd seen him; she could only imagine what the coarse scruff would feel like against her palm, and other more intimate areas...but she couldn't follow that train of thought just yet. She was on a date. She had to behave...for now.

After glancing over the menu and placing their orders, a companionable if somewhat awkward silence descended on them. "So…" "So…" they both started at the same time, then stopped, laughing. She could feel blush rising on her cheeks and if she wasn't mistaken, there was a fair amount of pink on his, too.

"Sorry; I don't go on actual dates often," she apologized.

"Can't say I do, either," he replied, to her amazement. How anyone who looked like that had a shortage of dates was inconceivable to her. He continued, "You go ahead. What were you going to say?"

Actually, she'd forgotten, but she pulled something together fast. "So what was it like to be a merman?"

He smiled. "It was fun, although I did feel a bit naked."

"Were you?" Emma blurted out, curiously and coquettishly. So much for behaving.

"Aren't all mermen?" he teased back with a wink. Oh, this date was going to be excruciating if it was all going to be like this. She swallowed at the mental imagery of him naked lest she spit out any other too-forward comments.

Thankfully, their food arrived then, and they fell into small talk about their childhoods—he with his brother in England, her bouncing around the local foster system—and, even though they never brought it up, she could tell that he was something of a lost boy; though he covered it up, she caught a look in his eyes that she knew she too wore at times: the look you get when you've been left alone.

That, paired with the story that went with his tattoo (whatever it was—she wouldn't pry), brought into focus the other part of why she felt so drawn to him: they'd clearly both survived heartbreak and came out stronger for it; that was hard kinship to come by, and she was discovering that she didn't want to let that go.

And, you know, he was fucking hot; that damn chest hair was still teasing her and when he moved to reach for the ketchup, she got an eyeful of his defined collarbones. Never had she been so aroused by someone who she had already seen half-naked but was still fully clothed.

When the meal was completed, the waitress came by again, offering dessert, but Killian declined. "Actually...I've got something at home, if you're interested," he offered, somewhat seductively.

Emma didn't hesitate to respond. "Sure," she answered, more breathily than intended but it could hardly be helped. How else was she supposed to respond when Mr. Perfect Chest Hair invited her to his home?

Killian paid the bill and, ever the gentleman, offered her his arm before they left and escorted her out into the night.

And if there was anything to be gleaned from the hungry look in his eyes, despite having just eaten, she could tell that this night was far from over.

He wasn't lying about the dessert—he actually did have pie back at his place. They exchanged heated glances over their slices with coffee as they sat at the corner of his dining table. Her nerves were back, but paired with excitement this time; they hadn't really discussed what was going to happen here, but honestly, she was up for anything, innocent or otherwise.

She insisted on cleaning the dishes after, but he still followed her into the kitchen of his small but tidy apartment. Once the mugs were washed and dried and she was working on the plates, he put the cups away—which just so happened to be the cabinet above her head. She nearly dropped one of the plates when she felt the heat of him radiating against her back; he didn't even touch her, but just his proximity was enough to ignite a fire deep within.

She rushed through finishing her task while he was still carefully putting away the mugs, and then turned around to hand him the plates. Her chest nearly collided with his and his blue gaze was closer than anticipated, intense as ever and holding her own for a second that felt like forever. A spark flew through her when his fingers grazed hers as he collected the plates, and she found herself preemptively missing his presence in her space as he shifted to move away from her.

But instead, he moved impossibly closer, leaning in and glancing down at her lips. She did the same—watching as his tongue darted out across that full bottom lip of his—and she was sure he meant to kiss her.

Until he stepped back, having only set the plates down on the counter behind them. She noticed a slight hesitation in his eyes then, like he wanted to do something but wasn't sure if she was okay with it. Well, she was.

She grabbed the lapel of his waistcoat and hauled him to her, lips firmly colliding. He seemed slightly surprised at first but it took hardly a moment for him to be in it with her, one-hundred percent. His hand and wrist found her lower back, holding her tight to him as he pressed forward. His mouth was strong and insistent, but his tongue was a perfect gentleman, asking for entrance against her lips before dipping in and tangling with hers. The occasional scratch of his beard against whichever part of her face it grazed was even more pleasant than she could have imagined.

None of this should have been romantic—they were in his kitchen, with its harsh fluorescent lights and the countertop digging into her back—but it was somehow completely perfect. She gripped his sides and held on for dear life, matching his moves in equal and following wherever he led. She couldn't help the occasional grind into him, seeking relief, but he was equally guilty of that and she was quickly becoming desperate for more.

When they finally came up for air, foreheads touching and chests gently heaving, he swallowed before asking a question. "Emma...are you sure?" She nodded against him, but then he pulled back and lifted her face to his with a finger. "Because, I have to admit...I'm great at the one-night thing, but...I want more than that with you."

His sincerity took her by surprise; she hadn't expected such an intimate revelation. But she quickly knew that she agreed. "I want that, too."

He smiled, a sweet thing that cut dimples in his cheeks. "I've, ah, I've actually got a confession: I've been thinking of you ever since that day I met you."

She swallowed a small gasp. Seriously? He had? It shouldn't have been that shocking—he did text her, after all—but she wasn't used to having someone that interested in her on more than a physical level.

It was only fair that she let him in on her secret, too. "Well, then I've got a confession of my own."

"Most women do," he flirted, but she could tell he was covering up insecurity.

"I've been thinking about you ever since then, too, and I may have watched that clip of you swimming about five-hundred times." His shy smile in response suggested that he, too, hadn't been in that position—genuinely desired—for some time.

Gently, he took her hand and led her out of the kitchen to his unlit living room, never once breaking eye contact until they stood in front of his sofa. Still standing, he held her waist and leaned in to kiss her again, but this time was less frantic and more purposed. It felt like his lips were cherishing her; she'd never been kissed like that, and it was more thrilling and more passionate than she'd ever felt before. The heat of her arousal was building, from deep within all the way to the tips of her fingers where they'd come to rest against his strong chest.

His chest—how could she forget? That was half the reason she was here. (Well, maybe not quite half, but...a significant part.) In anticipation, her hands scratched against his waistcoat, remembering what was hidden under layers of fabric. Too many layers, actually.

As their mouths continued their seemingly well-choreographed waltz, her hands drifted down to the top button of his vest. She waited a moment there, silently asking permission; he answered by pressing forward, pushing the button into her waiting fingers. Quickly, she released them one by one and then slid it off his shoulders once he let go of her.

Reluctantly, she pulled back from the kiss, but she had to see what was coming. She'd fantasized about what lay under that button-up far too many times to not give it her full attention.

He seemed to sense her anticipation and wore an amused look as her fingers found the top button. For this, she was going to take her time. Slowly, she undid the closure, revealing just a bit more of the spanse of hair that had been teasing her all evening.

Another one down showed where the hair was thicker—not quite what it had been, but still oh-so-wonderful. Her fingers itched to touch it, but there were several buttons to go. Each one she reverently unfastened exposed more of that dense thatch at the center of his chest, eventually opening to where it thinned across his pecs. She followed the buttons down as they paralleled the trail of hair running the middle of his stomach, soaking up the sight, until she reached where the shirt was tucked into his black jeans.

An involuntary pout formed on her lips, making Killian chuckle. "Go ahead," he murmured, and she looked up to see a combination of laughter and lust in his eyes.

Part of her wanted to wait more, to truly take her time in treasuring and unwrapping the present that was Killian's upper body, but the heat deep inside was growing impatient. So she tugged it out quickly, front and then back, then placed her hands on his shoulders under the thin fabric.

She did linger in sliding it down his arms, feeling his firm biceps under her palms and grazing the fine dark hair on his forearms. The shirt fell to the floor and there he was, halfway bare in front of her and looking somehow even better than her dreams. Her dreams didn't include the heat of him under her hands where they'd settled at his waist. They didn't quite capture the soft coarseness of his hair against her thumbs as she drew them up the line from his navel. And they didn't capture that look of genuine want in his eyes as her palms settled on his perfect chest and she met his gaze.

He was smirking at her, too. "What?" she wondered, blushing slightly.

"I knew you liked the chest hair," was his teasing reply. "Is that the only reason we're here?"

"No," she quickly refuted, blushing even harder. "But I can't lie; I've seen a lot of chest hair, and yours...yours is definitely the best."

He smiled, a lascivious thing, and tilted down to kiss her again. His hand and wrist again found her waist and her fingertips drew lazy patterns over his pecs, dragging through his chest hair as much as she could as he drew her closer.

One of her hands wandered up to play with the short hairs at the nape of his neck while the other continued to toy with those over his heart, and their tongues began their tango again. The simmering want within was back over the flame, and the warmth of his skin was fueling it. It burned through her dress to the point that she may not have even been wearing one...which seemed like his goal, if the hand drifting up her back to the zipper was anything to go by.

Like she had, he hesitated when he reached it; she rolled her shoulders back to urge him on, suddenly desperate to get out of the confining garment. He dragged the pull down and the cool air against her spine was exceedingly refreshing, but contrasted by the sparks created whenever his fingers grazed her skin.

When he finally reached the bottom, she moved to tug the dress off her shoulders, but he intercepted her. "Ah ah," he told her, voice raspy and a teasing, warning look in his gaze. "My turn." She panted as he pulled it off one side, then the other, then guided it down over her hips until it fell in an unceremonious pile at her feet, revealing the black lace bra and panties she wore underneath. His eyes grew wide at the sight of her in her underwear; he sighed, "So beautiful." She felt more bare than ever in her life, but the reverence in his eyes when he finally met hers nearly took her breath away.

And then, there was no going back.

They collided in a frenzy of hands and lips and tongues and limbs, the force on her end knocking him back onto the couch. She straddled his lap and pressed against him, the hair on his stomach tickling hers in the most tantalizing way. Her fingers buried themselves in his silky tresses, taking them from purposely mussed to completely disheveled; he somehow found a way to undo her ponytail and was similarly running his hand through her locks.

His beard had been teasing her in their frantic kissing; the slight scratch against her soft lips was delicious, and she wanted more. She abandoned her assault on his mouth with one final peck before working her way down to his chin and then across his sharp jaw, thoroughly enjoying the roughness of his scruff as it gently burned her, echoing the heat that was quickly pooling at her center.

Seeking relief, she rolled her hips against his, chasing whatever friction she could find with lace against denim. He was in a similar state, and groaned when she moved against his erection. That sound vibrated all the way through to her core, so she kept going, putting them in a ceaseless cycle that had both on the edge within minutes.

She braced her hands on his chest, scratching and pawing at the hair that she just could not get enough of. In turn, his hand slid up and drew a strip of heat over her lace-clad breast, making her gasp. He continued to massage and she swore she was damn near ready to come just from this, and they hadn't even gotten to the really fun stuff.

As they continued their grind and her mouth found his again, his hand wandered around her back to the clasp of her bra. Again, he paused, but she rasped "do it" in as commanding a tone as she could muster. He popped the fastener immediately and they both pulled it off desperately, tossing it aside so he could lave over her peaked nipples.

Her head fell back as he worked, first one breast and then the other, with his expert fingers replacing his tongue, eyes closed with pleasure; her hands first found purchase in his hair, but then trailed back down to his chest, attracted like a magnet.

She was fully aware of the strain on his jeans and the way it pressed against her soaked panties; she was also overcome with the desire to know how his chest hair felt when it was moving against and over her. Almost of their own volition, her hands wandered down, following the trail that led across his toned stomach, past that ticklish belly button, and disappeared into the waistband of those too-tight jeans, which she began to tug at.

He sat straight up, eyes flying open dramatically, and his deep sapphire gaze met hers. "Not here," he breathed out, voice deep with lust, and wrapped his arms around her lower back, pressing her close to him. He moved to stand, leading with his hips, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, bringing them chest-to-chest. Once securely upright, his lips found her neck and her nipples met his chest; the combination of the way he nipped and sucked paired with the coarse caress of his chest hair against her sensitive breasts had her panting with want and wondering just where he was taking her—hopefully nowhere far.

They passed through the threshold to what was apparently his room; what little she glimpsed was as neat as the rest of his place, but she was basically on sensory overload until he let go with his hand to pull back the bed covers and carefully set her down on the sheets, along the length of the bed. He opened a nightstand drawer to pull out a condom, then propped himself over her with his forearms and swung a leg across so he could hover over her on all fours. "Now, where were we?"

She was realizing that she'd probably never tire of the way he attacked her lips, much like she'd never grow weary of the feel of his chest under her palm. But to get back to where they were, she drew her fingers down across his abdomen again, straight to the button of his jeans, undoing it with a satisfying pop. She quickly tugged the zipper and then dug her thumbs into the side of his waistband, making sure to get under his boxer briefs too, and pushed them down. He moved forward to help her, sliding them down to his knees and freeing the cock she could only imagine before—and her imaginings did not do his thick length justice.

He knelt back and managed to wiggle out of the legs of his jeans, leaving him fully nude, nothing between them but a scrap of lace that she was eager to divest. He seemed to sense her need and tucked two fingers under the front edge of her panties; she was impatient, though, and grabbed the seams and ripped. A quick lift of her hips and it was gone, and she sat up to take him in hand.

It was a good thing he'd told her to "leave his balls alone" way back when; the thick thatch of dark hair there was perfectly placed and she wouldn't have wanted to remove any more than she'd had to. He felt good in her hand, warm and firm, and she could only imagine how he'd feel inside her. She stroked his length before she took the condom from him, enjoying how he felt outside in anticipation of how he'd feel inside.

She hadn't gone long, savoring the desperately contented sounds he made at her ministrations, when he stuttered, "Emma—I need to—"

"Okay," she quickly answered, realizing she needed him, too. Faster than she ever had before, she grabbed the condom from where he dropped it on the bed, tore open the package, and rolled it over his length, making sure it was on right. Then, carefully, she leaned back and guided him to where she was aching for him. He took over, holding his cock in hand and circling her entrance with the tip almost teasingly. The fire within had not simmered out, yet he was fanning the flames now and they threatened to consume her. "Killian," she panted, almost begging, raising her hips slightly to guide him. Not a second later, he was thrusting in.

They paused there for a moment, getting used to the feel of each other—and damn, did she like it; he filled her perfectly and was a comforting weight above her.

His hand and wrist found her waist, gripping tight as he slowly pulled back and then slid back in, hitting all the right spots inside her. He did it again, and her hands found his shoulders, thumbs taking hold in the dip of his collarbones.

"Is this…" he started to ask as he languidly kept thrusting. She nodded in the affirmative—it was perfect, but she was starting to have a hard time forming words.

With her okay, he picked up speed, and the faster he went, the more she felt herself nearing the edge. His chest brushed against hers on each graceful press, coarse hair against her oversensitive nipples, providing a contrasting yet complementing sensation to what was going on elsewhere unlike anything she'd felt before—and she was sure she'd be ruined for anything else after this.

He was almost there, too, she could tell, because his thrusts rapidly increased in tempo. Her heels dug into the mattress to brace herself against the impact of his presses and tension mounted quickly within, building, building, building—and then she was there.

Pleasure came over her in waves, nearly threatening to drown her. For a moment, it felt like she couldn't breathe, coming with a gasp as her orgasm sent shockwaves through her nerves and rippled through her inner walls. It was merely seconds before he joined her; he stopped and tensed, his grip tightening, and she could feel him pulsing within. He gasped out her name and his face contorted in both pain and bliss; there was something gratifying knowing she'd done that to him, just as much as he had to her.

He dropped his head to her shoulder as he came down from his high, but regained himself enough to pullout and peel off the condom. He excused himself to the bathroom to dispose of it, returning with a warm wet cloth to clean them both up.

Even that he did with a sense of reverence, and Emma was starting to wonder how he was real. Because in her life, no one had ever cherished her like that, nor had she ever experienced pleasure that was even in the same realm.

After he returned from tossing aside the washcloth, he lay down next to her and drew up the covers, sensing her shiver preeminently as the sweat cooled on their skin. So she had to ask: "What are you? Are you a fae, or an elf, or actually a merman?"

He chuckled, a deep thing that reverberated through her. "Why do you ask?"

"Just...that was incredible. I've never felt like that before. No one's treated me like that before."

Even in the minimal light, she swore she saw him blush. "Nor I, love."

She reached over to place her hand over his heart; it was racing below her palm, and that wonderful hair that covered his skin. Who knew that a bit of lusting over something as superficial as that would lead her here? (She knew it was more than that, of course, but...yeah.) "Well...I'd be happy if we both made that a habit."

"Aye. Me too."

Ardently, she cupped his face and placed a gentle kiss against his lips. "What do you say to starting that tonight?"

His gaze quickly turned from loving to lusting. "I think that's a fantastic idea."

* * *

Several months, many dates, and too many intimate meetings to count, Emma and Killian lay cuddled together in his bed, coming down from their high. Emma had her head on his chest and hand over his heart, idly drawing patterns through the fully-regrown chest hair there. He sometimes teased her about how little his sleep shirts got used now that she was over on a regular basis—even if they weren't up to more enjoyable activities, she'd found his chest was better than any pillow or plush, but it was obvious that he loved it.

As they lay there, his phone buzzed on the nightstand and he grabbed it to read the text. His eyebrow raised curiously as he read the message.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's Ariel," he answered. "She's looking for models again."

Emma froze, nearly in terror, and her hand gripped his chest in panic. "No, you can't...I'm not…"

He laughed gently at her reaction. "Calm down, love; I swear, you're only with me for my chest hair." She lightly swatted his pec in protest; he feigned pain. "Relax; she already said I wouldn't have to wax. In fact, she was inquiring after both of us. What do you say? Be my mermate?" he proposed with a wink.

She giggled. "I'll do anything with you but manscaping. Once was enough."

"Aye, that it was; but I can't say I regret it," he agreed, placing a gentle kiss at her temple.

"Me neither."


End file.
